A whisper floated across the floor. A footstep? It wasn’t Marie. Marie was direct. The being that watched her now was anything but.
She held very still, listening to a silence so quiet it roared. There was nothing. No movement, no telltale signs of life other than her own occupying the dark space. Why was it so cold? Even with the fire having died, she knew something was wrong. Ever so slowly, she inched her arm toward the nightstand and toyed with the idea of turning on the small lamp. Her hand touched her telescriber instead, and she closed her fingers around it.
A slight suggestion of noise. A hiss of something that sounded familiar but which she couldn’t place. Metal?
Her decision made, she waited for one heartbeat, two, and then flung the heavy blankets aside, sliding from the bed onto the cold floor. Something landed on the bed behind her, and she made a mad dash for the door. She reached out with her free hand to feel the wall as she crashed against it.
Sliding to the right, she found the door and then the key, which she’d left in the lock. She turned it and yanked the door open just as something brushed down the back of her head and clutched her nightgown. Her breath coming in gasps, she wrenched away into the hallway and twisted around, looking behind her with wide eyes at a shadow that remained just that. There were no sconces lit. Were it not for the windows at the end of the hallway, which themselves were covered by curtains that allowed only a sliver of light through the gap between them, it would have been as dark as her bedchamber.
She forced her legs to move, stumbling in her haste and nearly sprawling upon the carpet that muffled the sound of her footsteps. The only sound was her gasping breath as she ran, frantic, to the landing overlooking the main hall and then around the corner and into the south wing.
A whisper? A noise behind her?
Her own gasps precluded any sound her pursuer might be making. She felt it—felt something there. She wasn’t alone. She looked back as she ran, seeing nothing but darkness and shadows and her long, tangled curls in her face. The movement threw her balance off, and she stumbled sideways. She hit the side of the unforgiving wall, sucking in her breath at the sharp pain that shot through her shoulder.
Nearly there. She was nearly there.
She flew to the massive oak doors and smacked her palm flat against the solid wood.
Reaching for the large brass handle, she twisted it and cried out in frustration and fear. Locked. Of course it was locked. Looking behind her again while still pulling frantically on the handle, she thought she heard laughter, so faint it might have been nothing. Her knees buckled, and she pounded on the door again, bracing herself against the oak as her legs threatened to give way altogether.
The door opened with a vengeance, shoving Lucy away and sending her flying. She sprawled on the floor, robbed of both breath and coherent thought. She reached upward, nearly mad with fear, as Blackwell grasped her arms and hauled her against him.
“What is it?” he said in her ear. “What is it?” He shook her, and she clutched a fistful of his shirt with her free hand. The other still held tight to her telescriber as though her life depended on it. She looked into the shadows of the long hall but saw nothing. Heard nothing.
“I . . . something . . . someone . . .”
Blackwell followed the direction of her eyes before hauling her into his suite and closing the heavy door behind them. Still holding her tight with one arm, he turned the key in the lock and then guided her toward a sofa facing the fire, its embers still glowing on the hearth.
When she didn’t release her desperate hold on his shirtfront, he sat down with her.
“Miss Pickett,” he said, his hand covering her fist on his chest. “Miss Pickett.”
His voice seemed to come from far away, and Lucy stared into the fireplace and shook her head. If her heart didn’t slow, she was afraid it would beat its way out of her chest.
“Lucy.”
She turned to face him, finally feeling her wits return. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“Was it Marie?” His voice was low, soft. His hand massaged softly up and down her back, and she felt herself begin to relax by degrees.
She shook her head, looking at his face as she slowly tried to loosen her fist on his chest. Bit by bit, she straightened her fingers until her hand lay flat, nestled under his.
“Someone was in my room,” she murmured, breathless, searching his blue eyes, which were bright, even in the dim light. “I promise you, I am not mistaken. He . . . I . . .”
Blackwell shook his head slightly, his thumb trailing along her fingers. “I believe you.”
Lucy took another deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling her shoulders relax. Still, her hand stayed under his, flat against his chest. “By the time I reached your door, there didn’t seem to be anyone behind me anymore,” she whispered. “I assumed you would think I was imagining things.”
“Miss Pickett, in the short time I have known you, you have shown yourself to be a woman of sound mind and common sense. If you say there was someone in your room, then there must have been.”
Lucy looked down at the telescriber still in her left hand. “I was going to send you a message.”
She felt the rumble of his chuckle under her hand. “And you did.”
“I am so sorry—I was a bit worried . . .”
“Worried?”
“Nervous, I suppose.”
“Nervous?”
She closed her mouth and let her eyes roam across his face, which was so very close to her own.
“Why did you come here first?” He whispered so quietly that she felt the question rather than heard it.
“I didn’t want to awaken Kate,” she murmured, drained from the desperate flight yet suddenly very much aware of everything about the room—the last of the dying embers casting a slight glow, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath her hand, his hand atop hers tightening fractionally.
“Arthur’s room is in the north wing.” He shook his head ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “You didn’t even give it thought.”
He was right. “No, I don’t suppose I did.”
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispered.
He was warm and so solid. She wanted to sink against his side and close her eyes. She did close her eyes but resisted the rest. Releasing a small sigh, she straightened her back and slowly pulled her hand from beneath his. He wrapped his fingers around it, holding it firmly for the space of a heartbeat, two, and then allowed her to reclaim it, placing it in her lap, where it suddenly felt very cold.
“Here.” He pulled a blanket from the arm of the couch, his other arm still around her with his hand on her back. He wrapped her securely in the blanket, though she found it woefully inadequate in comparison to the warmth of his body.
Blackwell rose and made his way to the hearth, adding kindling and bringing small flames back to life. The only sounds were the snapping of twigs as he fed the growing fire and the clock on the wall that quietly ticked away the seconds. With a shudder, Lucy drew her knees up to her chest and pulled the blanket around her legs, wrapping herself in a cocoon.
“Now, then. Tell me what you remember.” He sat on the couch, though not nearly as close as before. She swallowed an unwanted sense of disappointment. The man was autocratic and entirely too grim. She would do well to remember it.
She looked at the front of his shirt, which was horribly wrinkled from her poor treatment of it, realizing for the first time that he must have hastily dressed when he’d heard her at the door. His feet were bare and his hair was tousled, as though she’d roused him from sleep.
“I apologize, my lord, I—”
“Enough of that.” He waved a hand in abrupt dismissal. “Tell me everything you remember. What did you see?”
She winced. “That would be the probl
em. My room was completely black. The curtains had been drawn—but not by me. And it was cold.”
“The fire had died out.”
“Yes, but I felt a breeze, almost as though the door were open, but it was shut and locked tight. The key was still in it.”
“Did you hear anything? What roused you from sleep?” His voice was deep, quiet.
“A rustle of fabric, just the slightest of sounds—and metal against metal. Rather like a knife or sword being unsheathed.” She swallowed, suddenly identifying the sound that had propelled her from her bed.
Blackwell leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees and looking into the fire, his expression blank, as serious as it always was. “No sign of my sister’s spirit?”
She shook her head. “I knew from the moment I awoke that it wasn’t her.”
“How?”
“She does not hide herself from me. She is bold. Direct.” Lucy frowned, trying to articulate her thoughts. “The room itself felt different.”
“Are you not frightened by her, then?”
“Oh, yes. I am loath to admit it, but she frightens me a great deal. Forgive me, sir, but there is something about her that is . . . intent. Angrily so.”
He shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, Miss Pickett. You are honest, and that is what I require.”
The clock on the wall sounded three times, and Lucy realized how very weary she was. Still wrapped tightly in the blanket, she leaned sideways until she rested against the back of the couch. The thought of returning to her own bed had her shuddering.
Blackwell glanced at her. “Are you still cold?”
“I am warm enough. Thank you.”
“What are your intentions?”
“My intentions?”
“Surely you do not wish to remain in this house.”
Lucy shook her head. “My wishes are of no consequence. I cannot leave until I am assured that Kate is well. If I might impose on your hospitality further, I feel I must remain.”
His lips quirked into a smile, and she had the distinct sense he was mocking her. He sat back against the couch, closer to her, and met her gaze directly. “And since when do you require permission from me?”
“It is the polite thing to do.”
“And would you leave if I asked you to?”
She regarded him for a moment. “I suppose I would. But I might just drag my cousin with me.”
“She has a husband now, and a place here.”
“Something is wrong with her. I’ve known her all my life; we are as close as sisters. She is never ill.”
“Have you considered that she may be with child?”
Lucy raised a brow at his direct question, amazed that he could even ask it without so much as a flinch or a stammer. But he was a man who ruled the roost and made no apologies. “It was the first thing I considered. She has assured me that such is not the case.”
Blackwell’s face remained impassive, giving nothing away. “I cannot have you returning to your room tonight,” he finally said. “When it is daylight, I will program one of the ’tons to remain in your room to keep you safe.”
“That is not necessary, my lord. I shall simply send for my ray gun.”
“You have a ray gun?”
She nodded. “When Daniel returned from the war, he insisted I obtain a concealed weapons permit.”
He stared at her before responding. “Why on earth did Daniel feel you would need a concealed weapons permit?”
Her sudden wave of sadness was a surprise. Daniel kept everything light, bobbing on the surface, but there were undercurrents of darkness to her brother that had never been part of his personality before he had spent time in India. And he wouldn’t allow Lucy to help him. “He is no longer the carefree young man who entered the service.”
Blackwell nodded once, and Lucy wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t seem inclined to share, and she didn’t pry. When he finally answered her, he did so with a sigh. “I cannot have you sleeping with your ray gun under your pillow.”
“I am very accomplished with it, I assure you.”
“That may be. But supposing whoever seems bent on doing you harm cannot be stopped with conventional weapons?”
“If that is the case, I fail to see how a ’ton will be able to defend me.”
“A ’ton will be much stronger than you are. It will put my mind at ease.”
“And my weapon will put my mind at ease.”
He glanced at her. “Why did you not bring it with you? To Blackwell Manor, of all places?”
She sighed. “I had taken it from my luggage when I returned home from the Continent, and in my haste to see Kate, I forgot to repack it. I’ve not carried it long enough to miss it when I’m without it.”
“You may certainly send for it if you wish. In the meantime, I will program the ’ton.”
As he seemed firmly fixed on his solution, she didn’t respond. She wasn’t keen on the idea of anything watching her sleep, even a non-sentient metal contraption. She rubbed her eyes. Her energy had worn down, and although her thoughts still tangled and tripped over each other, her body was showing signs of her exhaustion. Her eyes drifted closed. She would rest for just a moment.
“You will sleep in my bed for the remainder of the evening.”
Her eyes flew open.
He scowled at her. “I shall sleep out here.”
“I will not keep you from your own bed, sir. I can sleep right here on this sofa.”
“We’ll not argue the matter, Miss Pickett. I doubt I shall sleep much anyway.”
“I would feel horribly guilty. You should be in your own bedroom. I’m fine now, in fact. I can return to my own chambers.” Though how she would make herself relax again in her bedroom knowing someone wished her ill seemed impossible.
He stood and held out a hand to her. “Come.”
She unfolded herself with a wince and stretched her legs, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She stumbled along behind Blackwell as he pulled her around the sofa, away from the door leading to the hall.
“But—”
“Hush.” Blackwell led her into an adjoining room with long strides that she had to rush to match. Still holding her hand tightly, he switched on a lamp, the low glow giving just enough light to dispel some of the darkness in the large room. There was a seating area around a cavernous fireplace, another door on the other side of the hearth that led to what she assumed was likely his wardrobe and washroom, and on the far wall was a gargantuan bed.
She cocked a brow at it, taking in the substantial frame of the four posts that rose high into the air and the heavy drapes that were pulled back and secured to them.
He shook his head with a slight eye roll as he caught the direction of her gaze. “It came with the title,” he muttered.
“It is very grand.” She tamped down a smile.
“It is very ridiculous. But comfortable. I trust you will rest well.” He pulled her to the side of the bed, and she wondered if he thought she would resist. Truthfully, the last place she wanted to go by herself was her own room. That he was insisting she remain with him was, while a bit awkward, a relief.
The top of the mattress hit just below her rib cage. “Might you have a step stool?” She was mortified by the thought of clambering up on the bed while he watched. She supposed she could ask his lordship to give her a boost, but the very thought had her cheeks feeling hot. For all that she felt she was fairly worldly and knowledgeable, she was afraid she was swimming in waters that closed well above her head.
She glanced at Blackwell’s face, which was cast in shadows, the hard lines returning and his brows drawn over ice-blue eyes.
He was irritated, and she felt a pang of remorse. “Truly, my lord, I can sleep on the sofa. Or in my own room.”
With something that sounded suspicio
usly like a growl, and before she could even begin to ascertain his intentions, he grasped her by the waist and threw her into the air atop the mattress. Her breath left her lungs, and she stared at him with wide eyes.
“Sleep. You look as though you need it.”
Gone was the tender rescuer and back was the aristocrat—demanding, directing, expecting nothing less than total compliance. If she weren’t so horribly exhausted, she might jump off the bed merely to prove a point.
She’d grown up without a father, and Daniel had always been her friend and confidant, not an authority figure. It was beyond her realm of experience to acquiesce in blind obedience, and when she had come across people who expected it, she typically twisted the situation to her advantage, maintaining an upper hand.
As it was, however, the mattress was as soft as she imagined a cloud to be. She shifted, feeling self-conscious as he stood there, waiting as she maneuvered herself beneath the heavy down comforter that smelled pleasantly of him and settled in.
Lucy couldn’t help but blush, her mortification complete. “I have acted as a child tonight, my lord. Your generosity is beyond the pale, and I thank you for it.”
He watched her for a moment longer, hands on his hips, shirt open at the throat, and his thick, black hair anything but tamed and in place. “Rest, Miss Pickett. I suspect we shall have a full day ahead of us in a few hours. And immediately following breakfast, I wish to speak to you in my den.”
There was something ridiculous about the stilted conversation, especially given the fact that she was in his bed and looking at him from his own pillow. “Very well.”
A muscle worked in his jaw, and he was silent for a bit. “Sleep,” he finally said and left the room in a few long-legged strides, closing the door behind him.
Miles spent the bulk of the early morning hours in his sitting room, staring at the fire and thinking about the woman asleep in his bed. The ghost of his murdered sister lingered, and someone in his household had attempted to harm a guest, yet all he could concentrate on was the guest herself.
His own sleep had been fitful at best when he had heard her frantically beating on his door. Shoving his legs into his trousers as he ran, by the time he reached the door he could hear her crying, terrified, on the other side. When he had shoved the door open and sent her sprawling, his mouth had gone dry at the sight of her. Scant moonlight filtered in through a high window, illuminating her mahogany curls, long and uninhibited, cobalt eyes, huge and terrified, and her long legs as the nightgown billowed around her on the floor.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 12